


Making Bones

by justanothersong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Also some sex at some point, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Dogs and cats living together, Explicit Language, F/M, Forbidden Love, It'll be anarchy, Italian Mafia, People will be shot, Reader Has a Pottymouth, Slow Burn, So does everybody else, Things may explode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-03-13 22:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: You never wanted to be a part of the family business but when your father was murdered, it fell to you; trying to go straight and avoid any violence, you find yourself becoming entangled with Bucky, an agent of the law enforcement group SHIELD while fending off attempts to reignite mafia violence in the streets of New York by a shadowy organization called Hydra.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to update this one on a weekly schedule!

“Not her,” Sam said, voice firm, right before he tossed back the rest of his drink.

Bucky, eyes on the curves of a beautiful woman across the room, turned his gaze back to the man at his side and frowned.

“What?” he asked, clearly not following.

“Not her,” Sam repeated, gesturing to call over the bartender. “Trust me on this one, man.”

Bucky frowned. He hadn’t thought he had been quite so obvious. The woman had come into the quiet little bar just a bit more than an hour ago and taken a seat at a small back table. She had been joined by a dark haired man in a suit and though they were speaking quite intensely in low voices, it was clear it some sort of business meeting and not a personal affair. She sat with her body turned away from him, a good deal of distance between the two, and didn’t touch him: no handshake, no hand on his arm, no knocking elbows at the table. She was keeping her distance. Bucky couldn’t help but be pleased.

He had noticed you as soon as you walked in, a shapely figure in a black business suit, a small gold cross on a chain around your neck, skirt just a little too high to be professional. You had noticed his eyes on you and gave the tiniest of smiles as you passed the bar. 

Bucky hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you for more than a few seconds at a time since then.

Steve sidled up beside Bucky at the bar, having returned from taking a brief call on his cell phone; reception in the bar was terrible, and he’d slipped out the doors to get a better signal.

“Everything still square?” Bucky asked, changing the subject. They’d only been off the clock for a few hours, back from a month long operation in Spain. Glad to be home in one piece, the three SHIELD agents had decided to grab a friendly drink before parting ways. Any time they could call a mission a success, it was cause to celebrate; the ones that went bad could very well be deadly.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Steve agreed with a nod. “Peg… Agent Carter just wanted to schedule a debriefing for the morning.”

Sam snorted. “Pretty sure Peggy’ll be ‘debriefing’ you tonight,” he said, earning a low chuckle from Bucky and a bright pink blush from Steve. The fact that Steve was sleeping with their ops lead was probably the worst kept secret at the agency, but he insisted on keeping up the charade. So far as Bucky knew, there was no hard and fast rule against it, just some general sense of it being frowned upon.

Which was probably the biggest heap of bullshit Bucky had ever heard of, given that the only thing SHIELD agents did better than their daily task of preventing terrorism and righting world injustices was screw each other’s brains out.

It was the stress of the job, Bucky reasoned; everyone needed that release once in a while and, honestly, there were few people outside of the agency -- civilians, really -- who could understand what they dealt with.

Bucky was going through a bit of a dry spell. He’d try to do the whole ‘relationship’ thing -- which is what he was fairly certain Steve and Peggy were doing, in spite her insistence that it was just really great sex and his insistence that there was nothing going on -- with a pretty analyst from the tech division, but it had crashed and burned pretty spectacularly, putting him off hopping into bed with anyone from the agency for a good long while.

He thought things might be looking up for him, when he spotted you. As if reading his mind, you glanced up and met his gaze from across the room. Another small smile, a tilt of your head, a subtle arch of your eyebrows; it was clear you had seen him watching you.

Steve let out a low whistle. “She’s pretty easy on the eyes, Buck,” he commented mildly, deftly changing the subject from his love life (or, as he insisted, lack thereof). 

“Pretty poison,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Do you two not read the dailies or what?”

Bucky frowned and glanced back at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Sam shook his head again before giving a friendly nod to the bartender, who had just replaced his drink. Downing half of it in one go, he frowned at the other two men and quietly said your name.

Steve arched a quizzical blond eyebrow. “Wait,” he said, glancing over at you for a long moment. “Seriously?”

“Serious as a heart attack,” Sam told him, voice and expression clouded.

“Damn,” Steve responded, shaking his head. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Guess that’s that, then, pal.”

Bucky’s frown only deepened. “What the hell are you two talking about?” he asked.

Sam chuckled. “Yeah. You don’t read the dailies at all,” he confirmed. 

Steve repeated your name for Bucky, and when it became clear he had no idea what Steve was trying to get at, Steve dropped his voice down lower and added, “The mafia princess?”

“More like a queen these days, since her old man got popped,” Sam supplied.

Steve’s expression turned to one of surprise. “Really?” he asked. “I didn’t think they did that. You know, cos she’s… she’s…”

“A ‘she’, yeah,” Sam agreed with him. “Times change, Rogers. Feminism and all that. Gives us all that great shit, sexual liberation, equality and everything. Including lady mob bosses.”

Steve snorted. “Brave new world,” he said dryly.

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Bucky grunted, finishing off his own drink. “All I did was take a look and appreciate a fine women from across the room. Means nothin’.”

“Oh, but it doesn’t have to,” you spoke up, voice teasing and soft as you paused alongside the group at the bar. You gave Bucky a long appraising look before turning your attention to Sam, flashing a friendly smile. “Agent Wilson, how are you? It’s been ages.”

Sam’s expression grew grim. “Not long enough for me,” he told you.

You sighed. “I’d say the same but it’s honestly a joy to see you without a flac jacket and a team of people tearing apart my warehouse,” you said in reply. You glanced back at Bucky and gave a playful pout. “Your friend here destroyed over forty thousand pounds of high quality Peruvian coffee beans, a very particular blend. Hint of almond and praline to the flavor, one of my favorites.”

Sam glared. “She uses the coffee as a smuggling front,” Sam explained plainly. “Drugs, weapons, whatever she wants to bring in. We just haven’t been able to catch it yet.”

Steve gave a curt nod. “Sam used to work the organized crime unit,” he told Bucky quietly.

You sighed, frustrated. “No drugs, _Sam_. No guns, no weapons of any kind. All you found were burlap sacks full of fresh roasted coffee beans. That you and your… your _agents_ destroyed. That was nearly half a million dollars in product and I didn’t get so much as an apology note.”

“What makes you think you even deserve…” Sam started, fire in his eyes, but Steve reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Sam deflated, cast his eyes to the ground, and grabbed his drink off the bar. 

“Maybe you should get on your way, ma’am,” Steve offered quietly. He could see that Sam was quietly seething, and the way Bucky’s eyes still followed you with muted interest; there was no way it could end well if it went on any further.

“I think you’re right, Agent…?” you responded.

“Rogers, ma’am,” he filled in automatically.

You smiled. “Agent Rogers,” you finished. “I do suppose I’ve worn out my welcome.”

“What welcome?” Sam snapped. Bucky watched, but said nothing.

You shook your head and turned to walk away, pausing as you moved to pass Sam. You didn’t turn to look at him but you spoke in a low voice just beside him.

“I was very sorry to hear about Agent Riley,” you said quietly. “Despite what you may think, my people had nothing to do with that mess in the Hudson warehouse.”

“Yeah,” Sam spat out. “Sure.” He was cursing under his breath as you walked away, heading to where your driver stood waiting at the door. You glanced back before you exited; Rogers was speaking quietly with Wilson, who still wore an angry expression and looked to be ordering another drink.

The other, though… he was still watching you. Greyish eyes and dark hair, a gaze so intense you could almost feel it against your skin, handsome face bereft of expression. While you stared back he gave you an appraising look and licked his lips. You arched an eyebrow in response and smiled, before turning to walk out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

“Were you just eye-fucking a SHIELD agent?” Clint asked, stepping quickly beside you onto the cold New York City sidewalk. There was a light snow falling, just a dusting really, but it was slick enough that your black heels squeaked against the concrete.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied glibly.

Clint hummed. “Nah, pretty sure you knew you were eye-fucking the SHIELD agent. Standing next to the other SHIELD agent who hates you. Wilson. The RICO guy,” he went on, a guiding hand on your back as you moved towards where he had left the Bentley parked. It wasn’t your favorite of the cars -- it had been your father’s -- but it was built like a tank and good for maneuvering in inclement weather, or so Clint claimed. 

Clint had been your father’s too -- his driver, his valet, his right hand when it came to matters of home and appearances. He was a few years older than you, the older brother you’d never had; he’d even done your hair for your senior prom. Now he was your driver, bodyguard, and closest confidante. You were extraordinarily lucky to have him; there were so few people you could trust anymore.

He opened the door to the backseat and rolled his eyes when you stepped past him to open the passenger door.

“You know what’s not how this works, babe,” Clint told you, and you snorted. He was probably the only person you’d let speak to you in that manner.

“Clint,” you responded evenly, “Get in the fucking car and take us home.” He laughed and crossed into the street to get to the driver’s side door.

 

“How did the meet-up with Rumlow go?” Clint asked casually, steering the car into late night city traffic. 

You sighed. “About as well as I’d expected,” you told him. Brock Rumlow had worked for your father several years ago, until he got sent up river on a firearms charge. It was a puffed up charge -- not surprising, the way everyone from the NYPD to the ATF to SHIELD were constantly breathing down your family’s necks -- but it had been solid enough to put him away for two years. They’d been looking for a snitch, and it did seem that Rumlow hadn’t broken.

But he’d made some new friends while he was put away, fallen into a small collective behind bars that was loyal to a larger group going by the name Hydra. You weren’t entirely sure what they were all about, but they’d sent Rumlow to you as a messenger boy: they wanted to do business.

“He’s pushing for a meet with this Pierce guy. I don’t know much about him, but Rumlow says he used to be SHIELD but was thrown out over something,” you went on, watching the blur of lights and pedestrians on the streets through your window. “It sounds sketchy.”

“Thrown out of SHIELD?” Clint asked, eyebrows raised. He spared you a glance for a moment, pulling his gaze away from traffic; he looked concerned. Eyes back on the road, he frowned. “That doesn’t sound right to me. We’re talking a hugely influential governmental agency. They don’t just take away your membership card and lock the clubhouse door. That’s congressional hearings and shit.”

You nodded. “That’s what has me so skeptical. I had half a mind to mention the name around Wilson and his buddies, just to see what kind of reaction it’d get. My luck, it’d just piss him off even more.”

“You really care what that guy thinks of you, huh?” Clint asked curiously. “Gotta tell you, babe, you’re not gonna be besties with him, no matter how tight of a ship you’re runnin’.”

You couldn’t help but sigh again, eyes closed, your head leaned against the glass. “I’m trying to keep things clean. I just need a few more months and I think I can get us out of every damn mess my father left, if I could just keep the peace a little longer. That shit in the Hudson warehouse, Clint… it fucked me over. Royally.”

“Wasn’t your fault that agent died,” Clint reminded, with the tone of a man who had made that statement time and time again.

“I know that!” you snapped, hands throw in the air in frustration. You closed your eyes again and shook your head, forcing yourself to remain calm. “I know, Clint. No one believes it, though. That was a fucking ambush. It wasn’t _my_ people there. We hadn’t used that warehouse in months.”

Clint nodded, swearing softly under his breath after being cut off by a taxi. “Still don’t know who called in the ‘anonymous tip’ to SHIELD, sayin’ we had a storehouse of coke waitin’ to be found. Probably whoever it was waitin’ to ambush.”

“We’ll find out,” you promised. “We’ll find out and when we do…” You bit your lip and shook your head. “I don’t know what I’ll do. Something.”

“I know you don’t want any bloodshed, babe,” Clint told you, voice low placating. “Shit, if I thought we could manage it… I know you want out. I get it. You wanna clear the family name and I’m all for it. Your old man was good to me. In spite of everything, I honestly believe he was a good man. Honorable. But there’s no easy way out of this.”

“No more blood,” you told him evenly. “Not on my hands.”

 

Steve excused himself from the others not long after you left the bar, muttering about an early meeting with Agent Carter; for all of his ease and ability in the field, working in undercover operations and lying through his teeth without issue, he still blushed pink as a posey on his way out, waving off the catcalls of his friends as he left.

Sam didn’t know Peggy Carter as well as Bucky, and clearly not as well as Steve, but it didn’t take a genius to see the way her eyes followed him in the field, or the small smiles they shared at SHIELD headquarters. 

“Think Carter’ll ever make an honest man outta our boy?” Sam asked, his mood once again jovial. They had a solid end to a rough day to celebrate, after all, and with you gone, he had no reminder of what had been upsetting him.

Bucky snorted, brown glass bottle paused halfway to his lips. He and Sam had switched to beer once Steve had left, not looking to get dead ass drunk. 

“Way she’s got him wrapped around her finger, wouldn’t shock me if they hauled off and eloped,” Bucky said in reply. “Shit, surprised they haven’t already.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “They that serious, you think?” he asked.

Bucky nodded. “You didn’t see’em when me and Steve hit basic. Steve was still a skinny little punk then, but Carter had eyes for him from the start. Looked at him like she was about ready to eat’im alive the day he dived on a dummy grenade.”

Sam chuckled. It was still a little odd to think of Steve as someone small and thin, but he’d seen the photographic proof. It was only by virtue of intense SHIELD training -- a place in basic training garnered by his far above average intelligence and strategy testing -- that his rail-thin body was able to pack on the muscle it had. He was something of a poster child for the training program because of it. Bucky and Steve had gone through the program together, Sam only signing on three years later.

“What about you, man?” Sam asked curiously. “You got any ‘dames’ on the sideline?” He liked to tease Bucky and Steve about their often old-fashioned turn of phrase, claiming they sounded like they’d rolled out of an old Cagney film; it hadn’t surprised him in the least when they explained that Steve’s mother had raised the man on old films from the 30’s and 40’s, with his best friend always sitting right beside him, watching the celluloid guys and dolls with rapt attention.

“Yeah, after that shitshow with Tessa from tech, I’ll deal with being single for a nice long while,” Bucky drawled, finally taking a swig of his beer.

“Yeah maybe that’s a good idea,” Sam said laughing. Tessa had started moving her things into Bucky’s apartment after two weeks; Sam had a good long chuckle when he found Bucky knocking on his door late one night, insisting he couldn’t go home because _she was always there_. “Still. Crazy Tessa is better than that stone cold bitch you were eyeballin’ earlier.”

Bucky frowned; he couldn’t recall a single time he had heard Sam use that particular epithet against a woman.

“She really got under your skin that bad?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t seem all that bad, to be honest.”

“Oh believe me,” Sam told him darkly, “She is.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky Barnes wasn’t really the cautious type. It had come back to bite him in the ass on more than one occasion but he just couldn’t help himself. Sometimes, he reasoned, it was better to take the straightforward path and walk through the fire than to try and circumvent it and get lost for all your trouble. So while he understood Sam’s concerns and had no real intention of pursuing so much as a conversation with you, his curiosity was piqued. When Sam headed off to an after-hours club with a foxy brunette he’d chatted up at the bar, Bucky headed home, intent on getting in a little late night research.

It didn’t take much. All he had to do was plug your name into a search engine and he’d find out just about everything he could want, so that is exactly what he did after showering and settling on his couch with a bag of tortilla chips and his laptop. 

There were more photos than he would have expected. He huffed an annoyed sigh to himself, rolling his eyes at the news media en masse; reality television and its ilk had turned criminals into celebrities. You had been doted on by the tabloids since your early teens, treated more as a debutante than the daughter of a murderer and kingpin. 

Bucky sucked in breath when he came across candid photos taken while you on vacation, a sunny beach that the headlines declared to be in Martinique. He had taken a healthy guess at your figure when he’d seen you in your svelte black suit but seeing it on display in the photos made it clear that it was just the sort he liked to find.

Shallow? Yes. Even crass? Of course. But he was only human, after all, and more than a little hard-up with his self-imposed singledom. 

Bucky sighed and leaned back onto the couch, pulling the laptop onto his thighs and putting his feet up on his coffee table. He absently grabbed a chip from the bag at his side and chewed on it, paging back to read more text articles rather than ogle at photos. 

 

The chips were a little saltier than his usual variety, but he was testing the waters. It had been three years since Bucky was taken, and eleven months since he had been cleared for active duty by SHIELD’s bevy of psychiatrists and counselors. His mind was his own again; he could work, not seeing threats in every shadow like he did when he’d first gotten his life back, not jumping on a hair trigger when someone walked too close. He was fairly well adjusted, he thought. 

The one thing he couldn’t seem to get back to normal was _food_.

Bucky could remember what he used to like. He hadn’t been much of a cook but his takeout palate was extensive; Thai, Indian, Italian, Polish, Turkish, French… any kind of cuisine, he was up for it, as long as the price was right and there was a lot of it. He loved the play of different flavors: bleu cheese dip on his pizza, a dash of Tabasco in his hot chocolate, honey on french fries… it was fun to experiment, to find something new. But he’d lost all of that.

He couldn’t make himself eat for pleasure. He’d tried and gotten sick, the programming beaten into him when he was taken, when he was “recruited” against his will for an experiment to create the perfect soldier. Strong. Fierce. Obedient. Bucky had fought it but it got to him eventually, and when the found him, he couldn’t even remember his own name.

It took time and some pretty hardcore therapy to get him back to himself. Steve and Sam had been instrumental in that, not pushing but instead guiding him back to who he used to be. Remembering that he could want things, that he could _have_ those things he wanted without facing repercussions. Bucky had flourished -- he’d even dated (Tessa shitshow aside), but food was one thing that he just hadn’t gotten used to as yet.

Tortilla chips. Boiled chicken. Baked potatoes, no butter, no salt. Blocks of unflavored tofu. Wax beans. Plain oatmeal -- he’d tried a little cinnamon on it once and started dry heaving before he could even swallow.

Drinking was okay: black coffee, water, the occasional beer or whiskey. That went down easy. The rest, well, it was still an uphill battle.

Even thinking about it could trigger him at times and it did now, the tortilla chip in his mouth suddenly too salty and too rich, burning his tongue. He cursed to himself and spit it out into the paper towel he’d been using to wipe the salt and grease from his fingertips, balling it up and throwing it onto the coffee table with a sigh when he was done. 

He pushed it out of his mind, focusing his attention back on his laptop.

 

After a few search pages full of links leading only to photo essays and city life, Buck realized that there was little mention of you that even touched on your father’s ‘business’. The only really relevant blips were a notation here and there following your name, a quick sideline of ‘daughter of well-known New York businessman’ tacked beside your photo, but that was it. The only time you were even pictured with one of your father’s men -- one of the ‘known associates’ whose photos littered the wall of RICO and organized crime task forces around the country -- were a few snapshots with Clint Barton, a man even SHIELD considered to be relatively harmless in the grand scheme of themes.

A valet, or a butler of sorts. Family servant, it would seem. Most often photographed behind the wheel of the car you were driving in or walking beside you, carrying a shopping bag or two.

On a hunch, Bucky started poking into some of the criminal activity databases he wasn’t, strictly speaking, supposed to have access to outside of the secure SHIELD network, and noted that you had never been arrested, never even suspected, in any wrongdoing.

At least, not until the death of your father.

That in itself was a sad image -- and image indeed it was, with Bucky pulling up the crime scene photos. Your father had been found slumped over in a wing hair in front of his own fireplace, garroted so deeply that it was a wonder his head had remained attached to his body. Bucky sucked in a low breath when he read the notation scrawled on the police report: _Victim’s body discovered by adult daughter_.

He raised an eyebrow at the ensuing reports: things had begun changing in your family’s operations after you had taken charge. The strip joints had gone clean, no more drugs running through the clubs and it looked like most of the prostitution had come to an end as well. The coffee business had expanded, a local storefront opened in Brooklyn and a tiny cafe in Williamsburg. There had been a few attempted busts but nothing illicit had ever been found.

Until a tip had been phoned in, directing SHIELD to a warehouse they had thought your family had abandoned, promising a large shipment of uncut cocaine to be on the premises. That was when he saw the name of Sam’s former partner, Agent Riley, listed as the only casualty.

It made Bucky wonder.

On a hunch, he clicked on the file of the actual anonymous tip that had been phoned in, and when he heard the distorted voice playing from his laptop’s speakers, he began to shake so hard that the computer slipped from where it sat on his lap, landing with a dull thud on the carpeted floor. The voice just kept playing -- promising a huge drug score at a particular address -- but Bucky couldn’t hear the words, only the voice that still haunted his nightmares.

He wasn’t on his couch anymore. He was curled into a ball on a cold concrete floor. He was strapped to a chair, a leather bit thrust between his teeth to stifle his screams and keep him from biting off his own tongue. He was on a frigid state of unknowing, his name and his life wiped from his mind and replaced only with the mission, the _mission_ above all.

Bucky brought his boot down hard on the laptop, silencing the droning voice even as he trembled. It was a long while before he was able to move; longer still before he could sleep and when he did, he woke up screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

New York wasn’t really all that big of a city, not when you lived there. You fell into routines, your social circles crossing in and out of those belonging to a hundred other people or more. So it didn’t surprise you all that much when you found yourself often catching the eye of the handsome SHIELD agent you had first noticed standing alongside Agent Wilson. 

Bars. Restaurants. Shopping once or twice, when you bothered to do it on your own and not just order things in. And when Clint convinced you that you needed to brush up on your weapons training and took you out to an all-night shooting range, well, it shouldn’t have surprised you to see him there either. SHIELD agents were required to recertify with firearms every three months, you had heard.

Just as you had heard that the agent in question was named James Barnes. Bucky, to his friends.

“Ah shit, this guy again?” Clint grumbled, loading the new handgun he was insisting you carry. You didn’t like being armed; you thought it was enough that you had Clint by your side more often than not when you ventured out, ready and willing to protect you where necessary. It didn’t sit well with you, with your need to curb the violence that had been running through your family’s organization for longer than you’d been alive.

But Clint was adamant.

“Quiet!” you hissed; you had to stop yourself from elbowing him, too wary of the firearm in his hands to make such a sudden move.

Clint cleared his throat. “So this is a Beretta Nano,” he said, voice up just a few notches as he spoke. “We’re looking at a 9mm, semiautomatic. Small. Concealable.”

You pouted, trying to ignore the handsome SHIELD agent as he chatted quietly with one of the gallery attendants a few feet behind your slot.

“I don’t like it,” you announced, frowning.

Clint snorted. “It comes in pink, if you prefer.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such an ass,” you told him, shaking your head. “Seriously, Clint. I don’t need to carry a gun. Never have before, I don’t see why I have to start now.”

“Because you’re making a lot of changes to the organization and not everybody’s gonna fall in line so easy,” Clint replied. He shook his head and set the gun down on the counter, leaning back against the flimsy drywall divider, his hip against the counter taking most of his weight. “Because someone made a point to royally fuck you over and got some Fed killed, making sure you took the heat for it. And because somebody took out your father in his own house and we still don’t know who.”

You sighed, eyes down on the tiled floor. You didn’t talk about it much -- your father’s death. You still woke up screaming some nights, remembering how cold the room was as you entered, the rich scent of blood still heavy in the air. Remembering the way your father was slumped in his chair, his head lolled at an angle to awkward to be natural. And someone had _done_ that. They’d come into his home - _your_ home - and taken his life, as easy as anything. 

Clint had been away. You could never fault him for that. He loved your family too dearly to have been involved, and you knew him far too well to ever have suspected him. Some members of the organization had tried to point a finger his way -- how convenient this should occur on one of the few occasions that Clint, your father’s right hand, his protector, should be away. But Clint was human; he deserved his downtime. You knew he had a girl somewhere; you didn’t know her name, he kept it close to the vest and you couldn’t blame him. If you had someone you cared about, you wouldn’t want them involved in this mess either.

There had been a leak, somewhere. You hadn’t found it yet. You would, though. You didn’t know what you’d do once you found it, but you would.

In the meantime, though… perhaps it wasn’t too terrible idea to have some protection on hand.

“Fucking hell,” you grumbled, picking up the gun. It was small, the kind of thing that could be tucked away easily, kept hidden. You’d had a concealed carry permit ever since you were old enough, at your father’s behest. He’d wanted you prepared. Perhaps he had known a storm was coming.

“Damn straight,” Clint grunted in agreement, then sidled up beside you to adjust your arms as you held up the gun. “Now, your stance…” he went on, nuding your ankles with the toe of his sneaker to position your feet. 

“Is this necessary?” you asked, blushing. You could feel eyes on you; you knew that Bucky was watching, his conversation with the attendant having died off some time ago. You didn’t look but you could feel his presence there, standing a few feet behind, eyes watching your every move.

“Yeah, it is,” Clint insisted. “Look, I’m not always gonna be there to protect you, babe. If you gotta pull your piece, I need to know you’re gonna do it right. Fucksakes, even this little shit Beretta is gonna be dangerous if you’re not using it right. Now bend your knees and lean forward, just a little, just barely, straighten out your arms…”

“If she’s not used to using a weapon, it’d be better if she straightened her back and kept one of her arms bent,” a new voice spoke up, and you could swear to that you felt a shiver go down your spine.

It wasn’t fair that he should look that good and then _sound_ like that.

Clint snorted and glanced back to where Bucky stood watching. “How’s that?” he asked.

Bucky took a few steps towards you both. “I said, if this isn’t her regular thing, she needs to straighten her back and bend an elbow. It’ll help her aim and keep the shot from reverberating too badly into her arms.”

“Why don’t you tell _her_ about it then?” you asked, turning back to face him. The lazy smile that graced his features was enough to drop the flat, stoic expression from your face; you couldn’t help it. 

“Sorry about that,” Bucky told you with a terribly charming smile. “I didn’t mean to talk like you weren’t standin’ right here.” He offered you his hand. “Bucky Barnes, ma’am.”

You smiled. “I know,” you told him, a small laugh chasing your words, and then offered your own name in return. Clint snorted again, clearly catching the flirty pique to your tone.

Bucky grinned. “I know,” he replied. “So what’s a girl like you doin’ at a place like this, this time of night?”

“Impromptu weapons training because this idiot is worried I can’t take care of myself,” you told him, nodding a head towards Clint as you spoke.

“Alright, babe, keep insulting me,” Clint said with a chuckle. “I’ll leave you two to it. Wanted to hit the archery range downstairs anyway.”

“Yeah, you do that,” you agreed, eyes not leaving Bucky’s as you spoke. “Looks like I just lost my instructor, Bucky. Want to step up?”

He licked his lips and nodded. “Doll, I thought you’d never ask.”


	5. Chapter 5

There was that impulsive streak, getting Bucky in trouble again. He couldn’t sleep and he had a qualifying range test coming up in a few weeks’ time; SHIELD paid him special attention in any and all tests since he came back, so there was no room for error. He didn’t expect that he’d really have an issue -- he was one of if not _the_ best marksman in the whole agency -- but it was calming for him to take a few hours at the range, remind himself that he was still _himself_.

James Buchanan Barnes. US Army, 107th Infantry Regiment. Sergeant, Honorably Discharged. Purple Heart recipient. Army Commendation Medal recipient. Joint Service Achievement Medal recipient. Meritorious Unit Citation. 

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky to friends. Nazareth Regional High School graduate. Junior Golden Gloves Champion. Big brother to three crazy sisters, son to an overworked mother and a father who’d fucked off before the youngest sister was out of diapers. 

It had taken him some time to find that again, to remember who he was, how to _be_ who he was; he wouldn’t ever let it go again without a fight.

So he had gone to the range, put in a few dozen rounds and was about ready to leave, chatting with the range attendant aimlessly; his therapist had pressed, during their final session, that he needed to reach out and speak to people, to remember what it was like to be human. Bucky thought he’d filled his human contact quota for the day and then, he saw you.

Finding himself pressed against your back, nudging your feet into the appropriate stance while guiding your hands into position with his arms wrapped around you was definitely not how he expected to find himself that night, but he was hard pressed to care. 

“Not so stiff,” he said right next to your ear. “Gotta relax into it.” Your breath hitched as he spoke and he couldn’t help the lazy smile that came to his lips. Bucky allowed himself to breathe in the scent of your perfume, something delicate and sweet, and guided your arm with his own, crooking your elbow just a little.

“Need a little give here, you see?” he told you, breath hot against your neck as he spoke. “You keep your arms too stiff, when you get the reverb from the shot, you could hurt yourself. You wanna ease into it, let your body accept the force instead of bracing against it.”

“Should I go for it?” you asked, flexing your fingers.

“Not yet, not yet,” Bucky warned, his thick fingers curling around yours. “Don’t go pulling that that trigger until you’re ready… and we’re in an enclosed space here, doll, even if it’s just you an’ me, need a little protection, don’t we?”

You shifted in his arms, glancing back at him with an eyebrow arched in question.

Bucky grinned. “You’re not wearing your gear,” he reminded, and nodded towards the noise reduction headset you’d left sitting on the counter. “Safety first.”

 

Oh boy. You were in trouble.

You thought it could be fun -- just some easy flirting with the SHIELD agent, a pleasant distraction from all of the dark thoughts and worries that had been plaguing you almost nonstop since your father’s death -- but you’d barely sent a wink his way and already you were certain you were in over your head.

There was something almost exhilarating about it, the feel of his strong warm body almost draped against yours; you felt drunk on it, certain already that you would be craving it against as soon as it was over.

Granted, it had been awhile; you couldn’t exactly be out looking for romance when you had your father’s family to run, some rats to root out, and this Hydra business to unravel. Even before all of that, it was never really easy to meet anyone. People were either immediately wary of you, if they recognized you, or far too interested when they learned about your father’s less than savory business. Certainly any sort of federal agent should be absolutely out of the question, but this one… well. It was nice to pretend, if only for a little while.

Bucky was definitely something else. You were never one much to get caught up in looks but you could swear you could pass a day just watching him, drinking in the subtleties of his expressions, watching the way his eyes would light and darken. You had seen it that night in the bar, seen the way others would watch him; there was an air of separateness about him, as though he was intent on keeping the world at arm’s length, and you were certain that was the only reason he didn’t have people approaching him left and right. 

In all honesty, you might have made that leap yourself.

Maybe it was his eyes, grey from far away but steely blue once you got close enough to see it. Maybe it was his stubble, marking him out as somehow different from his compatriots when they stood at the bar. Maybe it was his smile, plus lips that pulled up in an almost belabored grin, quick to fade when his friends looked away. You didn’t know, really, only certain that you felt drawn to him.

Moth to a flame. Or maybe just a woman in desperate need of a good lay. Who knew?

When you both finally donned some protection, Bucky kept his body close against you, guiding your movements right down to your fingers on the trigger. The little Berretta that Clint had gotten you was a little clumsy with the press of both of your hands but you managed, putting down a nice pattern on the target.

Bucky seemed almost proud of you when it came gliding in on the mechanized system.

“Doesn’t seem like you needed any pointers at all,” he told you after he slipped off his ear coverings, nodding towards the tight grouping of bullet holes a little left of center on the paper target.

You shrugged, your own protective headset already resting on the counter. “I have this argument with Clint every couple of years. I don’t like guns. He doesn’t like feel that I’m unprotected. So he gets me some small ladylike piece to keep on me, which I inevitably lose after a few months, then he starts bitching again and we go through the cycle all over.”

Bucky raised his brow, clearly not liking what he heard. “Lose?” he echoed.

You laughed. “By ‘lose’, I mean ‘lock away in a safe somewhere never to see the light of day again’,” you told him. “Clint never finds them, which leads to the inevitable new one. At least he didn’t actually get the pink one this time. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Bucky nodded, arms crossed over his chest, and leaned against the counter. “Seems to care a lot about you,” he offered, clearly fishing.

“Like a big brother,” you said. It had been implied before -- that your close relationship with Clint was something of the more romantic variety -- and it never failed to amuse you. The idea was so laughable that you could hardly understand how anyone could assume it.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” Bucky asked, a smile ghosting over his lips. “Anyone caring a lot about you in a different way, then?”

“I suppose that depends,” you said coyly, taking a step towards him. You cocked your head to the side, biting your lip in just the right way to make his eyes go just a little bit dark. “Do you care about me, Bucky?”

“I don’t really know you,” Bucky said. His voice had dropped an octave or two, eyes following you as you had moved closer. It wouldn’t be much now, just to lean in and tip your face up, see if you could catch his lips. Not much as all.

“Would you like to?” you asked, barely a whisper. Not that it mattered. Not that there was anyone else left to hear, the range all but deserted now. 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed with a short nod. He licked his lips. “Yeah. Maybe I would.”


	6. Chapter 6

You couldn’t help the irritated groan that escaped you when you heard Clint clear his throat from a few feet behind where you stood. You were usually pretty good at hearing people approach but your attention had been so solely focused on Bucky that everything else had fallen away. You regretfully took a few steps back and turned to face him.

“Yes, Clint?” you asked tersely. His eyes were shining with mirth and you could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“Nothin’, babe, just thought you’d be ready to go about now,” he told you, grinning. “Are you?” You sighed, glancing back to Bucky; perhaps it was too great a mistake to make, much as you knew you would enjoy making it.

“I suppose so,” you told him. Glancing towards Bucky, you smiled. “It’s been fun, Agent Barnes, but it’s late. I’d be willing to bet the both of us have a lot to do tomorrow… or, today, I should say.”

“I was hoping to make some new plans for tonight, actually,” Bucky told you smoothly, wicked little grin on his face. “But if you’ve got to go, I guess we can leave it for another time.”

“Til then,” you said, picking up your gun from the range counter. You couldn’t help but cast a glance back in his direction as you followed Clint towards the exit; Bucky’s eyes were following you as you left, dark and deep and perfect.

 

You had just made it into the main lobby of the range when a spray of gunfire made you hit the floor out of reflex, Clint falling down with you and covering you protectively where you crouched. The plate glass windows at the front of the building shattered inward, scattered across the cheap industrial carpeting and mingling with the glass from display cases that had broken open from the violence of the shots.

“Stay down!” Clint shouted at you, quickly standing and pulling his own gun from the shoulder holster he wore beneath his jacket.

Your ears were still ringing from the shots and you couldn’t hear Bucky’s footfalls thundering from down the hall. You jumped when he took you by the arm, almost pulling your own gun in reaction, before you saw who it was. He helped you to your feet and guided you behind a display of bulletproof vests.

“Put this on,” he instructed, pulling one from the low rack, and you didn’t hesitate to obey. When he was sure you were safe, he moved towards where Clint was inspecting the damage, his own weapon drawn.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded.

Clint, staring out the shattered window, shook his head. “Someone started shooting as we came out into the lobby. Rapid fire, fully automatic. Took out the windows and the counters, and these poor bastards.”

Bucky looked down and saw three men lying lifeless on the sidewalk outside. All three were well-dressed in suits and coats that each had an expensive cut. Silk ties, pinky rings: Bucky didn’t have to guess.

“Some of yours?” he asked, turning his gaze towards the darkened buildings across the street. Nothing glinted in the windows, not a television or bedside lamp, not even the catch of a streetlamp on a window pane; only then did he realize that the lights were out up and down the block. Someone had to have cut a line.

Clint shook his head. “Beneventi, I think,” he said, then nodded to himself. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s Eddie Tramunti and Tommy Casso. Not sure about the other guy. _Fuck_.” He glanced over his shoulder to where you still hid, watching intently through the tiniest sliver of space between the hanging vests. You weren’t stupid; even on good days, there was a price on your head just waiting to be met. You’d stay hidden until you were certain you were safe.

“I gotta get her outta here,” Clint told Bucky, clearly too agitated to realize he was speaking so openly to a federal agent. “This wasn’t a hit, it was a god damn frame-up. She’s being followed. Hasn’t been a dust-up like this between the Five Families since before her old man got hit, they’re gonna think we had a hand in it if she’s here.”

“Go,” Bucky responded quickly. For a few precarious seconds, he wasn’t a SHIELD agent at all; his only goal was to get you safely removed from the scene. “Take her out the back, there’s an SUV parked in the alley with government plates. Take it and get her outta here. Don’t go home -- go to a hotel, someplace high profile enough to be seen, and then stay holed up until I call. Got it?”

Clint licked his lips, then nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed, taking the keys Bucky was offering. “Yeah, we’ll do that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat wad of bills, peeling of several and dropping them on the ground. “Make sure the attendant gets that,” he said, moving towards you. “Make sure he knows we were never here.”

 

Once he heard the engine of his SUV rumble to life behind the building, Bucky moved to towards the counter in search of a landline. Realizing the phone had been caught in the gunfire and destroyed, he pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket.

The first call went directly to SHIELD. He reported the incident, the gunfire and the bodies, and stated in no uncertain terms that it had been only himself and the nighttime attendant in the building when the firefight started. Then, he called 9-1-1.

The attendant, barely more than a teenager, crept out of the hallway that led to the gun range, looking nothing short of terrified. A scrawny kid with a mess of spiky ginger hair and look of pure dread on his face, he started at Bucky with wide eyes until Bucky sighed and pulled his badge.

“Look, kid, we’re all good here, all right? I’m a SHIELD agent,” he said quickly, and the kid noded.

“What, uh… what do we do now, sir?” he asked, voice squeaking slightly.

“First thing, you come over here and pick up your money,” Bucky told him evenly. He could hear sirens approaching; it wouldn’t be long until the place was overrun.

“My money, sir?” the kid asked, looking at Bucky as though he had grown a third eye. Bucky sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to have to spell it out for this one, it seemed.

“Yeah, kid, your money,” he said with a nod. “Your cash, here on the floor. It’s not mine, so it has to be yours, right? It was just the two of us here tonight, down in the range, when we heard the shooting start. Some come pick it up so it doesn’t get tagged as evidence, you get it?”

After a long moment, the boy nodded and skittered over like a frightened hamster gotten loose from its cage. He plucked the bills up from the floor -- a grand, easy, from the looks of it -- and stuffed them down into his pockets.

“What now?” he asked. 

Glancing at the bodies out the window and spotting the tell tale signs of flashing lights in the distance, Bucky sighed.

“Now? We wait for the cops.”


	7. Chapter 7

You were shivering as Clint sat you on the closed toilet in the posh bathroom of your suite at the Synclaire Tower Hotel. You had a controlling interest in the place and kept a suite on reserve for occasions you didn’t want to leave the city, so it had been clean and ready for you when Clint ushered you inside. If anyone noticed that you were still wearing the bulletproof vest as you moved quickly and silently through the opulent lobby, they didn’t mention.

The staff was very discreet when they needed to be.

There was a medical kit that Clint always kept on hand in the suite and he put it to good use, picking bits and pieces of shattered glass out of your palms that you hadn’t even realized were there; you must have put your hands down in the mess from the broken display cases in the range lobby without even noticing.

“Hurt?” Clint asked quietly, dropping another sliver of glass onto the bathroom counter.

You shook your head. “Can barely feel it. Too cold,” you told him.

He frowned. “That’s shock, babe. Maybe we should get a doctor in here. Banner is still friendly with the family, I could call…”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I don’t want anybody else here. We can’t let anyone know what happened tonight, that I was even there.”

Clint nodded. “Good plan. We gotta figure out what the hell is happening. I don’t think they were after you but I think they were following us. Whoever pulled this bullshit is probably behind that warehouse fuckery too.”

“I don’t understand why… I haven’t… Jesus Christ, Clint, all I’ve done since my father died is try to get the family to run clean!” you told him, worry and exasperation clear in your voice. “Why am I being targeted?”

Clint took a long moment before answering; he opened a bottle of peroxide and used some clean gauze to start dabbing at your wounds. He chewed on his lip, eyes on what he was doing, before he responded.

“You know why,” he said in a low voice. “Your a woman, the head of a large crime syndicate in New York City. Your father was murdered. No one expected you to take his place. It’s a power grab, babe. But we’re not going to let them fuck with us anymore.”

You raised your eyebrows. “What do you suggest?” 

Clint started wrapping your hands in clean bandages. “I know you want to keep your hands clean,” he began, eyes on his work, not meeting your gaze. “And I get it. I do. But with this shit going on? You need to make some kinda move. A big statement.”

“Clint, I’m not going to--” you started, but he cut you off.

“I know you don’t wanna hurt anybody,” he said, looking up to give you a tired smile. “But tonight? Somebody tried to dump two bodies at your door. There’s got to be repercussions for that. At least if they come from us, we can control it.”

You sighed and Clint stood, dropping the remnants of his impromptu first aid session in the trash before giving you a steady arm to help you to your feet. You were exhausted; the events of the night had certainly taken its toll. 

“Don’t think about it anymore tonight,” Clint advised, watching as you crawled into the large bed without even undressing. “Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

You didn’t respond, already half asleep as you settled into the covers. Clint gave you one last lingering look before heading for the door and stepping out into the sitting area of the suite, closing it behind him. There was another smaller bedroom on the other side of the sitting room, but after all that had gone on he didn’t feel comfortable leaving you unattended, even in your own safe space. He dragged an armchair to rest outside your door and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. If anyone wanted to get to you, they’d have to get through him first. Content that you were safe, he closed his eyes, and was asleep in minutes.

 

“Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing,” a surly, sleepy-eyed Sam grumbled into the early morning darkness. The red and blue lights of the police cars nearby were still flashing, bathing his face in alternate colors while he glared down at the crime scene, taped off but the bodies still left on full display.

Bucky, who had been dealing with combatant local law enforcement officers for a good hour before SHIELD back-up finally arrived, seemed unimpressed with his attitude.

“Depends on what you think you’re seeing,” he replied flatly, ignoring the way Steve, who had been flanking Sam as they approached the scene, groaned at the response. Bucky and Sam typically got along, but when they didn’t see eye to eye they’d butt heads rather viciously, and he was not in the mood for a shouting match.

“I see some dead fuckin’ Beneventi muscle, that’s what I see,” Sam told him, hands on his hips. “Lou Lorenzo,Tommy Casso, Ed Tramunti… Christ, Barnes, what the hell happened here?”

“Fucked if I know,” Bucky replied with a shrug. “Me and the kid inside were leaving the range when we heard the shots, came out here to find the windows broken and a couple of corpses on the sidewalk. You say you know these guys?”

Sam nodded. “They’re enforcers for the Beneventi family. Can’t imagine what they were doing here… this isn’t their turf. Shit.”

“What were you doing at the range so late, Buck?” Steve asked, trying to sound casual. Bucky knew better than that -- he had known Steve far too long to buy the innocent act. When Bucky had first gotten back -- really gotten back, back to himself, allowed out of the hospital and back into his apartment -- Steve had been a relentless mother hen until Bucky finally had to tell him to knock it off. It still surfaced every so often, whenever he thought Bucky was doing something strange of out of the ordinary.

“You know I don’t sleep for shit,” Bucky replied with a shrug. “And I gotta qualify for range again soon, so I figured what the hell.”

Sam’s attention was momentarily diverted and he raised his eyebrows. “Again?” he asked. “Didn’t you just pass a couple months ago?”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, well, SHIELD keeps a close eye on you if someone’s been messing around with your head. I’m on an accelerated schedule.”

Steve frowned. “Jesus,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, you wanna tell your girlfriend to maybe lay off for a while?” Bucky replied; Steve’s frown deepened but before he could respond, the three of them were approached by a man in rumpled sport coat and khakis. It wasn’t hard to tell, from the glare on his face, the obviously concealed holster beneath his coat, and the slumped way he walked that he was a detective with the NYPD, probably on the night shift.

“Alright, no lookie-loos,” he demanded, frowning. “This is an active NYPD crime scene and I need anybody not involved in the investigation to beat it. That means you,” he went on, turning to Bucky, “Need to get your little friends back from wherever the hell they came from so we can take your statement and get this shit cleaned up.”

Sam gave the man a grin, flashing his SHIELD badge with an air of satisfaction. “Actually, this is an active SHIELD investigation, so you go get your uniforms rounded up, turn over any evidence they gathered to our techs, and go on home. Thanks for you help, but we can take it from here.”

The detective huffed and stomped away, shouting orders to the beat cops who had been compiling reports and evidence, with nary a word in response.

“So we’re takin’ this one on?” Bucky asked. It would be for the best, he thought; if he was actively involved in the investigation, he could make sure it never strayed your way. The thought startled him and gave him pause -- he barely knew you, after all. He wasn’t sure why he felt so driven to protect you.

“Hell yeah we’re taking this on,” Sam told him, nodding. There was a wild look in his eyes, his gaze flicking back and forth from the shattered window to the dead mafia men on the ground. “There’s hasn’t been violence like this between the families in years and even then, it was behind closed-fucking-doors. This is a goddamn statement. Made men being gunned down in the street, like it’s what, 1927 or something? We’re putting a stop to it.”


End file.
